Beautiful
by cinnamon badge
Summary: DracoGinny. Ginny Weasley was beautiful.


Written for 100quills on lj. Prompt #27: beauty

**Beautiful**

The Weasley girl was beautiful.

He could safely say that he had never seen a girl quite so beautiful as her. Despite her secondhand robes, third-rate cauldron and school supplies, the presence of nearly twenty young witches all vying for Gilderoy Lockhart's attention, decked out in their very best makeup and jewellery and robes – despite the presence of his father and hers, and several of her brothers, Draco Malfoy could not keep from gaping. Her red hair, her sparkling brown eyes, even the freckles scattered across her nose and cheeks...the things he had teased her brothers for the most, he found heavenly in her.

He often pointed to that moment, wholly unremarkable at the time, as the moment when he grew up. Before then, he had only concerned himself with his many possessions, and his friends, and doing mischief, and worming his way out of tight situations. Girls had never entered his list of priorities, for they were just that – girls. They didn't like dirtying their robes or playing Quidditch, so they simply did not rank.

But now, _now_ – Merlin, he was speechless.

If he could do nothing but stare at her for the rest of his life, he would not consider it a life wasted.

* * *

Ginny Weasley was beautiful.

Her hair billowed out behind her as she darted about the Quidditch pitch on her old, hand-me-down broom, and neatly caught the Quaffle from one of the other Chasers. Her long legs locked securely around the broomstick, she plummeted towards the ground in a daring move to avoid a Bludger, then rocketed up towards the other team's Keeper and flung the Quaffle with all her strength. Ten points to Gryffindor.

The smile that came to her face lit up the pitch even from where he was seated in the stands, watching the proceedings. She brushed her hair behind her ear and darted back into the game, where the Hufflepuffs had already regained possession of the Quaffle.

He wanted to make her smile like that. He wanted to be the one who went up to her after Quidditch games, when the other students had gone back into the castle, to congratulate her on her performance. She would be sweaty and grimy from the exertion, but smiling, for Gryffindor's victory would be due in large part to her prowess as a Chaser. And because she was his, only his, her successes would be theirs, together.

Draco wondered at the odd feeling blossoming in his chest, as he watched her score another ten points – then realised that it was pride.

* * *

Weasley was beautiful.

There was so little truly beautiful left in the world these days, now that the Dark Lord was making a go of eradicating such things. Draco clung to her strength, latched onto it with all his might, and once he had proved to the Other Side that he was not evil, was not about to murder them in their beds and give all of their secrets to the Dark Lord, they allowed it. Tentatively. He was so weak, but she was a beacon of strength, providing him and her brothers with a quiet power that enabled them all to continue fighting the good fight.

It made her eyes like precious stones, her strength; they glittered as though a lamp hung behind them, shining forth. He adored seeing her when she was like that, so utterly fearless and capable and 

courageous – everything he wasn't. Seeing her so strong made him almost feel as though he could be strong as well, could do anything, as long as she was there with him.

She promised that she always would be.

* * *

Ginny was beautiful.

She was a vital part of the recovery project, which helped restore buildings destroyed in the war, and bring medical aid to those in need. A regular Florence Nightingale, she was, and she would always roll her eyes and blush furiously when he said this, but it was true. Draco had joined the Ministry in exchange for the return of his inheritance, and was busy slaving away rewriting the Wizarding law and helping to enforce it, but what she did was far more important, he felt.

She had become too thin, from the rationing of the last months of the war, and she tired easily, but she went on. She came home each night and entered his open arms, and cried until his shoulder was wet with her tears, cried for all the people too far gone for her to save. Witches and wizards hexed within an inch of their lives, some who would be joining the Longbottoms as permanent residents of St. Mungo's, or simply had lost too much to want to keep living. But her conviction burned through her, her belief that the world could become a beautiful place to live in once again, and all Draco had to do was look at her and he believed it was possible.

Her beliefs – he might have called them naïve once – made her beautiful, for she was so passionate about what she did that she could probably convince him of anything.

* * *

His wife was beautiful.

Even now that he knew and had visited every inch of her skin, and knew where she was ticklish, and most sensitive, and what parts she was self-conscious about – Merlin, there was nothing and nobody who could convince him that she was anything less than a goddess. Draco loved that she loved him, and that she had entrusted him with her safety and well-being, for as long as they both shall live, amen. When he woke up in the morning and saw her stretched in bed beside him, his heart was full. How could such perfection and beauty exist in the world?

Most of all, he couldn't believe that she thought him just as beautiful. She praised his clear eyes, that held intelligence and foresight hidden in their gray depths. She loved his pale skin, particularly each and every one of the scars the war had left him with: badly deflected curse burns, spells gone wrong. She loved that he was diplomatic and courteous to a fault even to people he couldn't stand, and knew exactly what to bring and what to wear when they went to parties. Personally, Draco thought these traits of his were more practical than beautiful, and that she must be completely mad to be with someone like him.

But that madness, real or imagined, meant that his life was filled with beauty, so it couldn't be that bad.


End file.
